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A Missing Mother: The Transfer

Fiction
“I remember staring at barbed wire and armed sentries,” Yuki said. “I remember being engulfed by scattering dust in the whirling wind. I remember laying in my bed at the Topaz internment camp wishing I could raise my voice and say people should not be mean to one another.”

November Poetry from the Streets

Poetry
A pigeon waits placidly/ for some scraps of bread./ A homeless elder lady waits placidly/ for some scraps of coin./ In a world of uproar/ in which the sun still shines./ In a world of uproar/ in which flowers still show faces divine./ She smiles beatifically./ “God will make it right.”

Finding Refuge in Refuse at the Albany Landfill

Arts and Culture   Features
Creative women and men have created a flourishing homestead dedicated to art, ecology and freedom at the Albany Bulb. The plants are wild, the art dotting every square inch of the peninsula is unsanctioned, and the residents embrace an alternative lifestyle. All these elements seem to be in harmony with one another.

The Soldier's Box of Memories

Fiction
Miles and I had a strange bond: I was a conscientious objector and he was a Special Forces guy. He took some shrapnel in Vietnam and walked with a limp. After the war, Miles became a wandering man for years on end, spending time in homeless shelters up and down the East Coast.

The Jazzman Follows The Sky Up To The Roof

Fiction
“You’re trespassing. This is private property, plus you can’t sleep outside in this city.” The bespectacled cop writes out a ticket and hands it to Hank. “We’ll escort you downstairs.” Once back down on the street, the other cop says, “You’re free to go, but next time it’ll be the county jail.”

August Poetry of the Streets

Poetry
When angels visit dressed in white,/ in fragile slippers, golden wings,/ they offer marshmallows, starry light./ When angels visit draped in white/ of calm surrender to the night/ they know the streets and gritty rings./ Angels, visit please, in white,/ in fragile slippers, golden wings.

The Pacifist Basho

Poetry
The point of Basho’s poem, “Summer Grasses,” is the vanity of war in comparison to the fertility of the earth. If you recall Basho’s poetry while reading about war, or while sitting silently in meditation, or demonstrating against nuclear weapons, Basho’s consciousness may be a source of insight or power.

Willa’s Way to Walden Pond

Fiction
He’s engrossed in Walden and the memorable quote from Thoreau: “I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.”

July Poetry of the Streets

Poetry
there are angels sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk/ trading stories and confessions and some lies/ trading cigarettes and sandwiches and comfort/ with their whole lives in their little angel eyes/ angels who look nothing like the pictures/ in the big museum paintings on a wall/ hoping there’s somebody who remembers/ how far a little angel child can fall

The Professor

Fiction
He had been a professor of classics at a small southern college before the nightmare frame-up and 10 years on prison. A model inmate, he received an early release, but not early enough to attend the funeral of his only son, Isiah, an innocent bystander killed in a crossfire of gang violence.